Stranger Things
by dorianne77
Summary: Sherlock Holmes comes back a bit more battered than how he left, John Watson has exactly one fiancé more compared to the amount he used to have, and words just don't seem to make either of those issues any better. Alternatively: the one where John didn't know true happiness until he found a frozen penis in his fridge.
1. Chapter 1

**Day 1**

Sent at 06:02  
 _Sherlock?_

Sent at 06:14  
 _I know you don't usually do groceries, but we're out of milk._

Sent at 06:15  
 _Can you get some on your way back?_

Sent at 09:54  
 _Oh come on, doing the shopping for once wont hurt you!_

Sent at 13:20  
 _Fine, be like that_

Sent at 14:01  
 _What, you want me to beg?_

Sent at 14:03  
 _Or you just sulking because I didnt applaud your little performance yesterday?_

Sent at 14:12  
 _fine. it was brilliant. kudos to you. that what you want me to say?_

Sent at 14:14  
 _walking off a building sherlock. jesus. your dramatic flare knows no bounds does it_

Sent at 14:15  
 _you got me alright_

Sent at 14:17  
 _but seriously, can you get that milk now? i cant leave the flat rightnow_

Sent at 14:38  
 _just this once_

Sent at 16:58  
 _come on sherlock, just this one time_

Sent at 17:01  
 _bring milk jusr thisone time_

Sent at 23:19  
 _please_

 **Day 76**

 _Email 'Draft_1', last edited 21:31_

Dear Sherlock,

 **(deleted)** This is the 76th day since **(deleted)  
** **(deleted)** My therapist says I'm **(deleted)  
** **(deleted)** I don't know how to g **(deleted)**

You know all of that though, don't you.

Or you would, would you still be here. Wouldn't even need me to be present for this conversation, probably. No, of course not. You'd just fill in my words before I could utter a single one of them, and they would be perfect. You'd know exactly what I mean to say.

God, that would be so much easier than… whatever this is. Not a conversation, certainly. I'm not smart enough to guess the exact words you would use. Not that it ever stops me from trying.

I tackled a stranger in a parking lot today. He didn't even look that much like you.

Ella says it would be healthy for me to leave 221B, so I guess I ought to start apartment hunting one of these days. Tomorrow, perhaps. That might make her happy, for a change. I don't think she's satisfied with my progress. Nobody seems to be, lately.

Lestrade took my gun. He must have taken it at least two weeks ago, because he hasn't been in here since then. Such an amazing deduction, isn't it.

I only noticed ten minutes ago.

 **(deleted)** If you ever plan on jumping from behind the curtain and laugh at dear old John's priceles expression now wold be the time for **(deleted)**

You aren't buying that milk Sherlock, are you? No last miracle for me.

I don't know what to do with that.

I don't know if I ca_

 **Day 189**

 _Email 'Draft_2', last edited 05:11_

Dear Sherlock,

 **(deleted)** I'm sorry I didn't go to your funeral, **(deleted)  
** **(deleted)** I met Mrs. Hudson the other day and **(deleted)**

Apparently I still don't know how to do this. Ella will be disappointed.

I'm sorry.

Sincerely,

John_

 **Day 230**

 _Email 'Draft_3', last edited 23:29_

Sherlock,

I went on a date today and imagined what you'd say about her only four times. I'll call this progress, because if I don't then that means I haven't made any since you left and that's just not acceptable at this point.

She's a new nurse at the clinic. Didn't seem to be warned off of me yet, but I expect someone to give her 'the speech' before our second date. No matter. She's nice but we don't have too much in common as it turns out.

I also went back to Baker Street last Thursday. Didn't stay long and didn't go upstairs – not quite there yet – but I shared tea and biscuits with Mrs. Hudson. She looked to be on the verge of tears only for the first half an hour or so.

You're a right bastard for doing this, I hope you know that. Leaving a note, you said. You left a note alright.

Hope you're happy with it.

John_

 **Day 317**

Sent at 22:53  
 _fuck you ,sherlpck_

 **Day 328**

 _Email 'Draft_4', last edited 02:48_

Dear Sherlock,

I'm sorry for that message the other day. Not that you read it, or will ever read it, but still. It was uncalled for.

I met someone. She's smart and beautiful and we spent the entirety of last week almost constantly in bed. Her name is Mary, and she seems to be the first person who doesn't say things that remind me of you every goddamn five minutes. I think I'm going to marry her, someday, if she agrees.

There were memories I didn't dare revisit until recently, about you. Some more significant than others, like how my pinkie finger dipped into your blood on the pavement that day, making me recoil at the temperature. I remember how I only started to panic – to _really_ panic – when I realized the red liquid was actually _warm_ , and how I almost burst out in a hysteric laugh at the lengths I imagined you put into your little _shtick_.

Others bear far less weight, like that one time you turned up in my bed in the middle of the night, wrapped up in a gazillion sheets and shivering violently, claiming that "a fevered mind cannot be held accountable for navigating its owner to the wrong bedroom". You sneered at me when I offered to make you soup and nearly bit my hand off when I tried to take your temperature, but for all the bark and constant stream of complaints about my mattress and the 'frankly offending' volume I was breathing at, you still refused to move. You didn't sleep a minute for five days afterwards, and I wish I had asked you why that was, while I still had the chance to ask you questions.

The good and the bad memories don't seem that different now. They just… hurt. Ella says that's normal. But then again, she says 'that's normal' for nearly everything.

I miss you Sherlock. I'm starting to realize that's probably never going to change.

I think I'm going to be okay, now.

Yours,

John_

 **Day 364**

 _Email 'Draft_5', last edited 20:15_

Dear Sherlock,

Greg punched me in the face. One minute we're watching a game in a pub in peace and relative quiet, and the next I'm clutching at my bloodied nose and we're being ushered outside by the staff.

The last time I was thrown out of a pub was with you, obviously. Good times.

Greg took my scarf (your scarf) and told me (screamed at me) that I had to stop waiting for you to come back, that I'm not being fair to myself, to Mary, to you. In my defense, I didn't realize I was doing it.

His right hook might leave a lot to be desired, but ultimately Greg is right, so this is what I'm going to do:

I'm going to visit your grave tomorrow morning, on your anniversary. I'll bring you flowers you would sneer at and hate with a passion, and I will bring Mary along because… because.

In the afternoon, I will go back to 221B, collect all my stuff that's still there, and possibly help Mrs. Hudson box up the rest so she could rent the place again if she decides so. We will chat about whether Mycroft will want to keep your violin, she's going to place a request for the story behind the bullet holes in the wall – again, and I may or may not ask her about the yellow circle of paint on the wallpaper, even though I know it will be me who ends up reciting the story behind that too.

Then I'm going to buy a ring, and ask Mary to marry me.

Now, I know _exactly_ what you would say to that one: too soon, we've only been together for a few weeks, statistics about marriages ending in a divorce, the probability of her cheating on me within the month because of some astute deduction you'd base on the color of her nail polish.

I'd agree with most of it – sans the latter, but the thing is, I think she is going to say yes. We might be moving a bit too fast, but it fits us, somehow.

Sherlock, I cannot envision a future without Mary.

We're going to move in together, save up a bit and possibly buy a house in the suburbs. She wants a cat, two kids and a fireplace, and I want _her_ so I'm going to do my best to deliver all that.

I'll take up more hours at the clinic, start learning Serbian (there's been a surprising surge in Serbian patients lately), and while I will never be able to forget about you (not that I'd want to), eventually, hopefully, I'm going to start talking about you in past tense.

Someday.

Good bye, Sherlock.

Yours,

John_

 **Day 365**

"John? Why aren't you sleeping?"

Mary's voice is croaky and a bit nasal as she turns towards me in the darkness of the room, and my breath hitches for a moment when I realize I woke her up.

I dim the display of my cellphone in a haste, mostly to hide the expression I know must be present on my face, but it's too late. I catch a glimpse of the furrow of her brows before I put the phone on the nightstand: she's concerned.

"It's nothing," I try to infuse an audible smile into my voice, hoping it doesn't sound as strained to her ears as it does to mine. "Just the clinic. False alarm."

I lean in and reach for her frame blindly, manage to push a kiss against her shoulder, and my smile turns a tad more genuine against her skin. I love how she always seems to smell of strawberries. "Go back to sleep," I say and she hums in approval, already settling back against my chest.

"Aren't you supposed have this day off?"

The lie comes to me without conscious thought or delay, which should alarm me more than it actually does, but guilt is no match to my primary concern of placating Mary.

She's not supposed to be worried. Not over this.

"Hence the false alarm," the words are escorted with a breathless little laugh, and Mary buys it without a second thought. She has no cause for doubt – I never lied to her before, after all. "They paged the wrong guy."

"Well," she runs her fingers over my arm that's settled against her waist, and giggles a little at the way I shiver in response. "I could find something to do for this _wrong_ _guy_ , if he's sure he's not needed elsewhere."

I pull her against me with a force she doesn't expect and she squeals in delight, kicking at my shin in mock fight.

"Oh, he's very, very sure."

Her answering laugh is pure happiness, and I never, _ever_ want to hear any other sounds for the rest of my life, except for maybe—

I glance at the nightstand guiltily before I kiss her, knowing all to well what lies in the outbox of my text messages.

God, I need to stop doing that.

Sent at 00:13  
 _Sherlock… please._

 **Day 402**

 _Email 'Draft_6', last edited 01:36_

Dear Sherlock,

Happy Birthday. I'm sorry I forgot about it last year. I suppose grief and the denial of your dea loss death overshadowed such intricacies for a while, back then.

Mary said yes. We're getting married in August. I wish you could be there as my best man.

I never thought I'd say this about… well, anyone, really, but I think you'd like her. She bought me a pink cane and bribes me into using it in public, on occasion. It's oddly fun.

She seems to enjoy listening to my tales about you, which I discovered while she helped Mrs. Hudson and I clean 221B. I kept your violin, by the way. Mary said Mycroft would have taken it already if he wanted it, and that it would be nice to remember you by something you obviously used to love.

She doesn't seem to think you were incapable of experiencing a full spectrum of human feelings, not like most people who met or heard about you before. She also said I made the two of us sound like we were a twisted kind of couple. I should have probably corrected her, but she looked more intrigued than resentful, and besides, there's no point to it anymore, is there.

Greg asked for my assistance on a case, if you'll believe it. Something about army weapons – I'm not all clear on the details yet, but he's coming over tomorrow with the necessary files.

He gave me a very nice version of the 'when I said you should move on, I didn't mean you should jump into marriage' speech, but promised to give my gun back after the wedding.

 **(deleted)** Things are… not as bad as **(deleted)**

I think I'm ready to be happy again.

Wherever you are Sherlock, I sincerely hope you are happy **(deleted)** , too **(deleted)**.

Yours,

John_

 **Day 436**

"Do you love her, John?"

Ella has no expectations, I know. There's no right or wrong answer to that question, and yet, I find myself wondering if she would argue against the marriage if I said no. She's fond of reminding me how she's only supposed to provide guidance, not actual advice.

"Yes," I inflate the word with as much confidence as I feel, which is not much, sadly. I think I answered honestly, but God only knows if I'm genuinely in love or only trying to stuff Mary into a Sherlock-shaped hole with a desperation I'm terrified to acknowledge even on my better days.

Ella studies me for a few heartbeats longer than what would be comfortable, but thankfully she seems to find whatever she's looking for after a minute or two. Her lips curl into the tentative beginnings of a smile, and for the first time since I began to attend these sessions, I know she's not scribbling down something negative on her stack of papers.

Huh. Looks like I'm in love then.

 **Day 449**

"So," Lestrade hovers in the doorway after collecting the last of the documents, and I suddenly get the feeling this case was just some kind of test that is rapidly approaching its evaluation phase. "You look happy."

Bingo.

I smile in reassurance because Greg became a good friend over the last year, and he deserves better than a mate he constantly needs to worry about. I'm not his problem.

"I am," I throw out easily, and it's not a lie. I think. I'm getting more and more sure every day.

Greg studies me for a long minute (people are starting to make a habit of that), then gives an amenable grunt as a response and clasps a hand around my shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze.

"Good. That's good, John."

He exhales, looking like a stone has been lifted off his shoulders. A rather enormous one. Oh.

"Here," his hand disappears behind his back for a second, and when it reemerges something is shoved against the bare skin on my forearm. Something cold and metallic.

My gun.

I extend my fingers in a light daze, but Lestrade holds it out of reach, a dangerous glint settling in his eyes.

"Don't be stupid now, John."

It's hard to say whether that's a command or a plea, but my answering nod must come across as a good enough promise because half an hour later Greg is back at the Yard, and my SIG is safely tucked away in my dresser, at the bottom of a drawer Mary would never look for.

I must be doing better than I thought, I guess.

 **Day 461**

Sent at 01:50  
 _You need to come back, Sherlock. You need to take my gun away._

Sent at 01:59  
 _Please, take my gun away._

 **Day 480**

"Oh John, you didn't have to. It's lovely, thank you."

Mrs. Hudson takes the flowers and hurries to put them in a vase, an act which is quickly followed by an offering of tea and pleasant conversation over her kitchen table.

Neither of us mentions how the flat above is still free from tenants. I briefly consider offering to help finding someone, but at this part of London the reason is likely not a lack of possible applicants, so I decide to keep my mouth shut and focus on making Mrs. Hudson laugh at the expense of my newfound preference for a mustache. I get the feeling laughing is not something she does often enough nowadays.

At one point, the conversation settles into a comfortable lull, and I know what's coming even before she settles her mind on whether to place the question or not. I've been the subject of the same scrutinizing gaze way too often not to recognize it by now.

"How are you doing John, really?"

The weight of Mrs. Hudson's stare settles over me with all the delicacy of a freight train, but I feel the corners of my eyes lift in a smile despite feeling like the single greatest disappointment in the history of mankind. God, how self-absorbed I must have been to worry her at such depth.

"I'm good," I enunciate the words with more care than usual, testing them for cracks and breaks and chipped edges. I don't find any, and the realization makes my smile widen. "I'm doing good, Mrs. Hudson."

The expression lighting up her face is honest and raw and more than a bit teary, but if her crushing hug is any indication, it's far from a bad one.

 **Day 483**

Sent at 03:02  
 _Sherlock?_

 **Day 512**

 _Email 'Draft_7', last edited 18:10_

Dear Sherlock,

Mycroft invited me over to his home (palace? secret agency building? torture dungeon?) for dinner on Saturday. Well, me and Mary technically, but there's no way I'm subjecting her to the more psychotic one of the Holmes brothers – no offense.

Also, not sure if I can safely rule the torture dungeon out of the options, so… no. I'm doing this alone.

I wonder what he wants though, after falling off the radar – well, _my_ radar, at least – the moment you died. Hope he's not going to start reminiscing about you, because God knows I do more than enough of that on my own, despite my better judgement. Not that he strikes me as the warm and fuzzy type who would do something like that, but I've seen stranger things happen.

Usually in your company.

I invited Harry for our wedding, after a brief spat with Mary. Spat might be too strong a word, but it's all I've got right now. It's nice, knowing she's not going to just up and leave at the merest suggestion of a problem.

 **(deleted)** Thank God for that, because I know exactly where I would be without her in my life, and it's not something I like to think about. **(deleted)**

The tremor in my left hand is back. Oddly, I'm hoping your brother might actually have some useful insight on that, being the first one who picked up on its origin and all. Mary keeps assuring me she would be happy to have a groom with an ugly cane and a trembling hand at the altar, but if the presence of your brother could scare at least one of those features away temporarily, then I honestly wouldn't mind having him at the reception.

Well, that's another sentence I never thought I would utter – or in this case write down – one day.

The date of the wedding is getting nearer and nearer, and I still find myself unable to imagine it without you by my side.

 **(deleted)** I'd like to think I know better than to ask you to pop in by now, but on the off-chance I'm **(deleted)**

Guess I will never have a basis for comparison in what your presence would change, so it doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm going to miss you, Sherlock.

Also, I kind of want to punch you in the face for missing my wedding, among other things. But mainly I'm just going to miss you.

Be good, Sherlock.

Yours,

John_

 **Day 515 / Day 0**

Sent at 21:10  
 _Sherlock?_

Received at 21:11  
 _John. -SH_

Sent at 23:15  
 _oh christ sherlock_

Sent at 23:15  
 _god_

Sent at 23:16  
 _you bastard_

Received at 23:17  
 _Indeed. I take it Mycroft told you everything, yes? -SH_

Sent at 23:17  
 _i hate you so much_

Received at 23:18  
 _I'm aware. -SH_

Sent at 23:19  
 _youre really, really not_

Received at 23:19  
 _Are you willing to enlighten me in person, then? -SH_

Sent at 23:45  
 _no_

Received at 23:45  
 _No? -SH_

Sent at 23:52  
 _No, Sherlock. I'm not meeting you._

Sent at 23:53  
 _I can't._

Received at 23:54  
 _Not now, or not ever? -SH_

Sent at 23:58  
 _I don't know. Not ever, maybe._

 **Day 1**

Received at 03:40  
 _I understand. For what it's worth, I'm truly sorry. -SH_

Sent at 03:44  
 _thas not worth shit,sherloc_

Received at 03:45  
 _I'm aware. -SH_

Sent at 03:56  
 _no ,yuor reallyreally not_


	2. Chapter 2

**Day 1**

Received at 12:19  
 _John, I talked to Mycroft. I understand if you want to be left alone, but you need to check in with one of us. Mary is worried._

Received at 12:47  
 _Just give me a ring so I know you're okay._

Received at 13:20  
 _An empty message will do._

Received at 14:25  
 _John, answer your phone or I'll have it traced._

Sent at 14:27  
 _Heelllo there greg._

Received at 14:28  
 _How drunk are you?_

Sent at 14:31  
 _not too drunk anymore. Please tell mary im ok._

Received at 14:33  
 _Let me know if you need me to pick you up._

Sent at 14:35  
 _thanks._

Received at 19:02  
 _He came by to settle legalities a few hours ago. Thought I'd let you know, in case you had… doubts._

Sent at 19:30  
 _Did you talk to him?_

Received at 19:35  
 _Took his pulse, actually. I think he took offense to that. Still a prick._

Sent at 20:11  
 _oh god_

Sent at 20:29  
 _i honestly dont know whether to laugh or cry, greg_

Received at 20:34  
 _You and me both, mate._

 **Day 4**

"You thought he was dead for a year and a half. Your reaction is not unjustified, John."

I thought he was dead for one year, four months, twenty-nine days and four hours, but I know correcting Ella would be the wrong move. She'd scribble down something about obsessive behavior, and I'm supposed to be way past that phase.

"I just… God, I used to imagine him coming back so many times at the beginning," and in the middle, and at the end, and yesterday, and five minutes ago, and likely tomorrow and the day after that. "I thought I would be… uh…"

"Happier?" she offers in a mild tone after a minute or an hour of silence, and I realize I zoomed out on her again.

Happier. Such a trivial word.

I always imagined I'd feel like the luckiest person in the world if I ever got Sherlock back. I imagined I'd cry like a baby for hours, run my hands through his hair, kiss him and hug him and keep touching him absolutely everywhere to make sure he was alive, that he was real, that he was breathing, that he came back _whole_. I thought I'd surgically attach myself to his hip and never leave his side for a single waking moment ever again, not even when he'd start kicking and screaming and ordering me to get lost because he's sick of the sight of me, and I thought there'd be nothing, no force in the universe that could possibly keep me away from him for—

"John?"

No. Not happier.

"Yeah," I half-whisper in a voice I don't recognize, nodding once for good measure. "I guess I thought I'd be… happier."

 **Day 5**

Received at 09:30  
 _Doctor Watson,_  
 _If You would be so kind as to return my calls at your earliest convenience, I would appreciate it very much._  
 _M. Holmes_

 **Day 6**

"It's okay to be angry at him, you know."

Mary's tone is packed with a healthy dose of confidence and gentle understanding, like she's fully prepared to help me through a meltdown right here, right now if needed be, but I've seen that expression before and I recognize the touch of terror in her eyes – the one that suggests she's dreading the notion of that happening for real.

I reach for her hand over the kitchen table and force myself to smile, because she doesn't need to know just how warranted her fears really are. It's not her problem.

"I know," I reply easily but my mind immediately flags the words as a lie, because I'm not angry at him, no, I just feel like my world is suddenly overstuffed and tearing up at the seams and there is so much space at the core that has been empty for far too long and yet the person who left that void behind doesn't seem to fit in there anymore, not without forcing the air out of my lungs and there's just not enough room for a breath and I'm brimming and where did all the air _go_ and— "I know."

God, Mary.

 **Day 7**

Received at 09:30  
 _Doctor Watson,_  
 _My brother requires your assistance and time is starting to be of essence. Please see to it that You answer the next time I call._  
 _M. Holmes_

 **Day 9**

"—ohn! John, look at me! You need to breathe love, you need to—"

Oh God I can't, I can't, I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't—

 **Day 10**

Received at 09:30  
 _Doctor Watson._  
 _You do realize I could just send someone to fetch you._  
 _M. Holmes_

 **Day 11**

Incoming call at 20:43

 _"Greg."_

 _"John! Where are you, mate?"_

 _"I'm—ah… home?"_

 _"…"_

 _"Greg? Everything okay?"_

 _"Yeah. It's fine. Just… we're at Adam's stag nigh."_

 _"Adam's… Christ, I totally— I'm so—"_

 _"It's fine John. It's fine. He will understand."_

 _"Oh God, I didn't even—"_

 _"Stop it. Said it was fine. I'll explain it to him."_

 _"…Explain what exactly?"_

 _"Don't even try that one with me. Go eat something and get some rest. Is Mary there?"_

 _"I—yeah. Yes, she's here."_

 _"Good... Bloody hell man, I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but—"_

 _"Then don't."_

 _"—I really think you should talk to Sherlock. The way he looked at the Yard—"_

 _"Lestrade!"_

 _"…Sorry. Not my business."_

 _"Damn straight it's not."_

 _"…"_

 _"What… what do you mean the way he looked when—"_

 _"There was something off about him, John. I didn't want to say anything because I knew how hard this must have hit you, but—"_

 _"Off how?"_

 _"I… I don't know. I think you should go see him."_

 _"Off_ ** _how_** _, Greg?"_

 _"Like… I think he was injured. Badly."_

 _"…What makes you think that?"_

 _"His brother kept hovering way within touching distance, like he was ready to catch him at a moment's notice."_

 _"Mycroft has a tendency to be overbearing."_

 _"Sherlock didn't seem to mind."_

 _"…Oh."_

 _"Yeah… Will you—"_

 _"I need to go, Greg. Please tell Adam I'm sorry."_

 _"I, okay, just—"_

End of call at 20:46

 **Day 13**

Sent at 22:59  
 _I have your violin. Should I send it to you?_

Received at 23:00  
 _No. It's yours. -SH_

 **Day 14**

Received at 09:30  
 _John._  
 _My brother needs a doctor. Please, pick up your phone._  
 _M. Holmes_

Sent at 09:44  
 _There are plenty of good doctors across the city._

Received at 09:46  
 _None of whom Sherlock would be willing to accept treatment from, in his current condition._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 09:48  
 _Is he dying?_

Received at 09:49  
 _Would you be more amenable if I said yes?_ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 09:49  
 _Is he?_

Received at 09:56  
 _No._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 10:03  
 _Then he will just have to settle for the best your money can buy, won't he._

Received at 10:06  
 _I'm afraid it's not a question of money, or preference even, this time._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 21:57  
 _What's wrong with him?_

Received at 21:59  
 _Something I would prefer to discuss in person, if You don't mind. Tomorrow morning, perhaps?_ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 21:59  
 _no_

Sent at 22:12  
 _I cant see him, Mycroft. I just can't._

Received at 22:49  
 _Well, that's going to be quite a problem, then. Be sure to let me know if You reconsider._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

 **Day 17**

Sent at 01:37  
 _Hey Greg. I know it's quite late, but would you mind coming over for a few minutes? I won't keep you long, I promise_

Received at 01:46  
 _yours or mary's? something happen?_

Sent at 01:50  
 _Mine._

Received at 01:54  
 _on my way. you ok?_

Sent at 01:59  
 _I'm fine. I would appreciate if you could take my gun for safe keeping, though. Just for a little while. Please don't panic._

Received at 02:00  
 _10 minutes. dont move_

Sent at 02:02  
 _Is this your way of not panicking?_

Received at 02:03  
 _shut up and put the kettle on_

Sent at 02:05  
 _Thank you._

Received at 09:30  
 _Doctor Watson._  
 _I trust the happenings of the early hours are not cause for me having to resort to preventive measures._  
 _M. Holmes_

Sent at 09:49  
 _Why, Mycroft, I knew you cared._

Sent at 09:58  
 _They are not._

Received at 10:00  
 _I'm glad to hear._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 14:25  
 _Don't tell Sherlock._

Received at 14:27  
 _I was under the impression there was nothing to tell._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 14:28  
 _There isn't._

Received at 14:30  
 _Good. Please do not hesitate to contact me if You change your mind regarding our earlier discussion._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 21:04  
 _I'll think about it._

Received at 21:08  
 _That's all I ask._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

 **Day 20**

Sent at 21:14  
 _Are you sick?_

Received at 21:15  
 _I beg your pardon? -SH_

Sent at 21:27  
 _Your brother keeps following me around. Insists on me treating you. So are you sick?_

Received at 21:35  
 _I see. Do ignore Mycroft. I don't require treatment. -SH_

Sent at 21:39  
 _So you're not sick? Or injured?_

Received at 21:40  
 _I am not unwell. -SH_

Sent at 21:41  
 _Define unwell._

Received at 21:43  
 _I was under the impression we are not on speaking terms at the moment. -SH_

Sent at 21:45  
 _You're deflecting._

Received at 21:45  
 _Doesn't detract from the validity of my statement. -SH_

Sent at 21:58  
 _I'm not meeting you, but that doesn't mean we have to be 'not on speaking terms'._

Received at 22:00  
 _Interesting. -SH_

Sent at 22:17  
 _I bet. So, is that something you would want? To be on speaking terms?_

Received at 22:17  
 _Yes -SH_

Received at 22:18  
 _Very much so. -SH_

Sent at 22:40  
 _Good. So now that we're on speaking terms, you can stop deflecting and answer my question._

Received at 22:41  
 _You placed no questions I haven't already given an answer to. -SH_

Sent at 22:42  
 _Sherlock._

Received at 22:48  
 _I sustained a few minor injuries before my transfer back to London. Nothing to warrant my brother's hellhound act, assuredly. -SH_

Sent at 22:49  
 _What injuries exactly?_

Received at 22:50  
 _A few burns and a sprained wrist. Hardly hospital drama material. -SH_

Sent at 22:50  
 _degree of the burns?_

Received at 22:50  
 _Mostly second. -SH_

Sent at 22:50  
 _mostly?_

Received at 22:51  
 _One is third degree. Breadth and location both negligible. -SH_

Sent at 22:51  
 _body percentage?_

Received at 22:51  
 _Less than seven percent, overall. -SH_

Sent at 22:51  
 _less than?_

Received at 22:52  
 _Around seven percent. -SH_

Sent at 22:52  
 _around?_

Received at 22:55  
 _Seven percent. -SH_

Sent at 22:55  
 _is your wrist in a cast?_

Received at 22:55  
 _Maybe. -SH_

Sent at 22:56  
 _so its broken._

Received at 22:56  
 _Mildly sprained. -SH_

Sent at 22:56  
 _mild sprains don't get you a cast, Sherlock._

Received at 22:57  
 _That depends on your definition of 'mild'. -SH_

Sent at 22:57  
 _and 'sprained'._

Received at 22:57  
 _Very true. -SH_

Sent at 23:31  
 _I don't know how to talk to you._

Received at 23:32  
 _You didn't seem to display any problems talking to me just now. -SH_

Sent at 23:35  
 _You didn't see me. I'd say there were problems._

Received at 23:37  
 _I see. Is there anything I can do to alleviate them, perhaps? -SH_

Sent at 23:38  
 _dont jump frombuildings, arsehole_

Sent at 23:39  
 _Sorry. Didn't mean to send that._

Received at 23:40  
 _Yes, you did. I'm still sorry, John. -SH_

Sent at 23:42  
 _Sorry doesn't cut it this time, Sherlock._

Received at 23:43  
 _Tell me what does, then. -SH_

Sent at 23:45  
 _Are you serious? you think a few artfully selected words can fix the last 17 months?_

Received at 23:46  
 _I didn't imply the solution should consist of words, strictly. -SH_

Sent at 23:48  
 _The solution? this is not a puzzle sherlock. theres no magical solution , im not even sure if there is anything salvageable left here at all_

Received at 23:50  
 _I understand that. What I was trying to communicate is that if there is any chance at steering our relationship into a direction that involves more contact and less hate towards my person, I'm willing to try. -SH_

Sent at 23:52  
 _youre 'willing to try'. really. god, youre unbelievable._

Received at 23:52  
 _Unfortunate choice of words. I apologize. -SH_

Sent at 23:53  
 _you never apologize, sherlock_

Received at 23:53  
 _I do, now. -SH_

Sent at 23:55  
 _god i cant do this_

Sent at 23:55  
 _im sorry_

Received at 23:55  
 _Wait, John -SH_

Sent at 23:55  
 _i though that maybe i could but youre just so… im sorry_

Received at 23:56  
 _It was a poor choice of words on my part. You know I'm not good at this. -SH_

Received at 23:56  
 _Please don't leave over this. -SH_

Sent at 23:56  
 _please stop talkingsherlock_

Received at 23:59  
 _Alright. -SH_

 **Day 21**

Sent at 02:51  
 _Maybe we should try this later. Wait a bit, until I stop trying to pick fights, and you're more… you. Another time._

Received at 02:51  
 _I'd like that. -SH_

Sent at 02:57  
 _For the record, I don't hate you._

Received at 02:58  
 _Yes, you do. -SH_

Sent at 03:03  
 _I really do, don't I. Take care of yourself, Sherlock. Good night._

Received at 03:07  
 _Good night, John. -SH_

 **Day 23**

"Isn't that Greg?" I hear Mary's voice from across the room, and I look up from the book I'm pretending to read just in time to catch her amused expression before my gaze automatically follows hers, landing on the telly. "What on Earth is he wearing?"

I almost, almost burst out laughing when I take in the scene unfolding on the screen, where the MET is apparently holding a press conference with Greg next to the podium and wearing an electric blue puffer jacket with a thick row of fur around the neck. Surely he's not wearing that by choice, is he?

My amusement is rather short lived though, because the man next to Greg starts talking, and when the camera zooms out there is one Mycroft Holmes standing to the D.I.'s right and the camera doesn't stop its movement.

Sherlock is there.

I know what this conference is about. They must be announcing Moriarty's death. Clearing Sherlock's name. Of course he's there. Why wouldn't he be? It makes sense that he's there.

Mary ups the volume a few notches but all I can hear is a constant buzz and my own quickening heartbeat, because he's wearing _the scarf_. The blue scarf Greg tore from my hands the day before I first visited his grave, and the hat, that godawful hat is pulled down into his eyes like he never took it off, and he's there, he's really there and not lying in a pool of blood on the pavement or burned to ashes and stuffed into a urn because he's _not dead_.

I know he isn't. I've known for weeks, but it still takes me a moment to reconnect the figure on the screen with the person I exchanged those horrible, dreadful, amazing text messages with just a couple nights ago.

My eyes are getting dry but I won't allow myself to blink, not if it means giving him a chance to vanish, to be swallowed up the by crowd around him and leaving me behind, because for all those ghastly thoughts about how life seemed easier when he was dead I cannot deal with the idea of him being out of my reach again, of him going somewhere I cannot follow.

Sherlock.

His cheekbones are sharper than in any of the memories usually playing on repeat at the back of my mind, and I can't decide if there is a bruise under his eye or if it's just a trick of the light. The collar of his coat is turned up, his hands buried deep in the pockets, and he's hunched in on himself just a little like he's trying to hide from the flashes of the cameras that cast minute shadows onto his features.

His smile is forced and fake, and it's the most painfully beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life.

Oh, Sherlock.

My fingers are tingling and I can't feel my legs, but after I finally, _finally_ manage to pull in a breath with some difficulty, it takes me about two seconds flat to realize what Greg meant the other day.

Sherlock looks defeated. They are announcing his return, his victory over one of the most extensive criminal networks in history, and yet he looks like he's bracing himself for a public execution instead.

He doesn't say a word throughout the whole ordeal. Mycroft's hand appears around his left elbow at some point, and it lingers, but Sherlock doesn't react.

The only time he pulls his arm away from his brother is for giving a little wave to the audience, prompted by the person still talking no doubt. His cast is black. Of course it is.

His hand goes back into his pocket a moment later though, and Mycroft is touching him again, freely and without hesitation, like such physical contact has been normal for them during their entire lives.

I _just_ start paying attention to the way Sherlock's right shoulder seems to sit lower than the other when the screen switches to a newscaster with blonde hair and startlingly pink lipstick, but her lips are moving too fast and how dare she take over the screen when I needed just a little more time, just one more minute with Sherlock, and why is it always, always pink when it comes to—

"John?"

Mary sounds worried. Of course she does. Breathing is no simple business.

God, Sherlock.

Received at 21:17  
 _I didn't know they would broadcast that today. Meant to give you a heads up. Sorry._

Sent at 21:27  
 _It's fine. Your jacket was… a riveting visual experience._

Received at 21:30  
 _One more word John. I dare you._

 **Day 25**

Sent at 11:43  
 _What's wrong with his shoulder?_

Received at 11:59  
 _It has been dislocated and reset one too many times, recently._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 12:01  
 _How? How did that happen more than once?_

Received at 12:03  
 _I believe the account I gave you included the words methodical torture, Doctor Watson._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 12:03  
 _no it didnt!_

Received at 12:05  
 _Yes, it did. You might have been a tad too busy tearing my study to shreds to notice, however._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 12:06  
 _jesus, mycroft_

Sent at 21:08  
 _I'm not sorry about your office._

Received at 21:12  
 _I didn't expect you to be._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

 **Day 26**

 _Email 'Wedding invitation' sent at 19:20, (+43 recipients)_

Dear Friend,

We would like to inform you that due to some unforeseen scheduling issues, we have decided to postpone the day of our wedding to the **28** **th** **of October, 14:00**.

The location and the menu remain unchanged.

We hope we can still count on your participation on this much awaited event – please, kindly let us know if you can attend.

Thank you!

Sincerely,

John Watson and Mary (soon-to-be-Watson:)) Morstan

 **Day 27**

Sent at 06:06  
 _He admitted to 7 percent of mostly 2nd degree burns and a broken wrist. What else is there?_

Received at 09:30  
 _Pneumonia from smoke inhalation, some cuts and bruises and a concussion._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 09:35  
 _Anything... permanent?_

Received at 11:01  
 _Some scarring is to be expected, as you have probably already guessed. We're not sure about the shoulder yet._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 17:49  
 _What about the psychological aspect?_

Received at 17:50  
 _Indeed._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 17:51  
 _Thats not an answer, Mycroft._

Received at 17:56  
 _And yet it's all I have._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

 **Day 28**

Sent at 22:04  
 _I'm not sure if I could refrain from punching you._

Received at 22:05  
 _I'm not sure if I would want you to. -SH_

Sent at 22:07  
 _You're in no condition to be taking hits._

Received at 22:08  
 _I'm sure I could roll into a punch at a degree that would leave no room for permanent damage, but still provide a satisfying experience for the one delivering it. -SH_

Sent at 22:10  
 _You do realize you are verbally assisting your own abuse right now._

Received at 22:11  
 _Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've ever done. -SH_

Sent at 22:12  
 _That it certainly wouldn't be._

Received at 22:34  
 _Are we trying the not 'not on speaking terms' paradigm on for size again? -SH_

Sent at 22:35  
 _We are not speaking._

Received at 22:35  
 _As you wish. -SH_

Sent at 22:41  
 _You're being very... agreeable. It's weird._

Received at 22:43  
 _My apologies. What I meant to write was 'Stroke is known to be the cause of illogical sequences of thoughts and sudden bursts of denial. I'd check for blood clots, John.' -SH_

Sent at 22:47  
 _this wasnt even funny_

Received at 22:48  
 _Perhaps you should stop laughing, then. -SH_

Sent at 22:51  
 _i cant. why cant i stop laughing sherlock_

Received at 22:52  
 _Well, stroke is definitely getting to be an area of concern. -SH_

Received at 23:40  
 _John? -SH_

Sent at 23:49  
 _Not yet._

Received at 23:55  
 _Alright. -SH_

 **Day 30**

Sent at 05:29  
 _Theoretically speaking. If I were to consider your request, what would I need to do exactly?_

Received at 09:30  
 _Clean his wounds, change his bandages and assist him with a bath every other day._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 09:37  
 _Are you serious?_

Received at 09:39  
 _He has little to no use of his hands at the moment, I'm afraid._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 09:50  
 _So he needs a caretaker. Not a doctor._

Received at 09:58  
 _I hardly think washing my brother's hair for a few weeks would detract from the value of your medical assistance._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 10:07  
 _You two are more alike than either of you would like to admit._

Received at 10:09  
 _Was that a yes, Doctor Watson?_ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 10:10  
 _It was a theoretical question._

Received at 10:12  
 _Ah, but of course. My bad._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 20:01  
 _can he really not wash his own hair?_

Received at 20:57  
 _Wondering who washes his hair now, Dr. Watson?_ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 20:58  
 _No I'm not!_

 **Day 31**

I'm really not.

 **Day 32**

Not Mycroft, certainly.

 **Day 33**

Sent at 23:22  
 _what if it was a yes?_

Received at 23:23  
 _Sherlock is expecting you tomorrow at 6 p.m. sharp. I trust you haven't forgotten the address._ _  
_ _M. Holmes_

Sent at 23:50  
 _how could i ever._

 **Day 34**

Must be Mrs. Hudson. Yeah.


	3. Chapter 3

**Day 34**

"You're late," he says.

I know. I spent half the day trying to talk myself out of coming here at all. If it wasn't for Mary I'd be still at home, preparing dinner with a considerably lower heart rate and infinitely less anxiety – calmer and safer and filled with regrets, no doubt.

"One hour and forty-six minutes late, to be exact."

Huh. I must have been pacing just outside 221B for longer than I thought.

Mycroft makes a show of dragging his eyes away from his watch and graces me with a scolding glare, which, okay, no. I'm not the one who spent more than a year pretending to be dead, so if Mycroft thinks he can make me feel _guilty_ over being a little late—

"Are you honestly going to start a fight over who has the right to be more offended just to delay your meeting with my brother for five more minutes?"

God, that condescending arsehole.

"Well," he steps out into the street, gesturing towards the door, "up you go, John."

"No more 'Dr. Watson', eh?" I send him a glare as he marches over to a not even remotely inconspicuous black car, and the fact that I failed to notice _that_ parking at the sideway probably says more about my mental status than I'd care to admit.

Mycroft's superior grin doesn't falter as a brunette steps out of the car and helps him into his coat, but his posture seems to soften as he turns back before disappearing behind the— wait, is that Anthea?

"I didn't tell him you were coming," the tone doesn't hold the same edge as his stare does, but the car is joining the evening traffic at a haste before I can process the real meaning behind the words.

He's giving me an out. If Sherlock doesn't know I'm supposed to be here, then I don't _have_ to be here, because Mycroft – _Mycroft_ of all people, who's been hell-bent on reuniting me with his brother ever since his return to London, _that_ Mycroft – is giving me an out.

I don't know why that thought makes me as angry as it does, but the next thing I know I'm reaching for a painfully familiar handle and I don't remember walking up the flight of steps behind me, much less closing the door downstairs.

The living room hasn't changed much since the last time I was here with Mrs. Hudson and Mary, and if it wasn't for the two figures occupying the sofa, there would be no indication it was lived in at all. The idea of knocking didn't even cross my mind before I barged in, but if the surprised expressions I'm greeted with are any indication, it should have.

"John!"

Sherlock is on his feet before I have a chance to properly take in the sight of him, but a strong hand appears on his chest, pushing him back down onto the sofa, and for a moment I'm blinded with panic because his inhuman noise of protest reverberates in my bones and dear God I _don't have my gun_.

"Dr. Watson, is it?"

The owner of the hand has a deep voice, warm and melodic, but he wouldn't be the first to steal scrubs from a hospital and play a doctor in order to get close to—

Oh.

"Would you mind taking a seat while I finish up here? We're almost done."

The last sentence is directed at Sherlock, who glares at the man – blond, blue eyes, taller than me but wouldn't stand a chance in a fight – and the viciousness of that stare puts me more at ease than the scattered evidence of the process my arrival interrupted ever could.

I have seen Sherlock face countless criminals during our time together, each with varying amount of contempt, but the sneer he is wearing right now has always been reserved for Anderson, Donovan, and the doctors who were trying to treat his injuries in an ambulance after a chase gone wrong. The tight knot of fright eases up its clutch around my stomach, but I still have to make a conscious effort to relax my shoulders.

"I… sure."

My tone is uneven and barely above a whisper, but it's enough to recapture Sherlock's attention. His eyes are almost comically wide and full of wonder, his childlike amazement unmasked on a level it only gets after solving a 'three nicotine patch case', and God, the intensity of those sea green orbs hasn't diminished one bit and I feel myself starting to collapse under his scrutiny, but just as I'm about to break eye contact Sherlock beats me to it, jerking away from the other man's touch on his neck with unexpected vehemence.

I find myself reaching behind my back for a gun that isn't there for the second time in as many minutes.

"This is the last one," the doctor retracts his hands quickly and holds them up in as if in surrender, and while his face is carefully blank, the trace of exasperation in his voice is impossible to miss. This is not the first time he witnessed this reaction from his patient, and I'm nowhere near prepared to consider the implications of that fact.

Sherlock hesitates only for a moment before giving a decisive nod, scooting back into his original position and within the reach of the medic again, but his eyes don't leave the blond man's hands as they dab a piece of gauze over the joint between his neck and shoulder, tugging the collar of his shirt away. His fingers slowly move into a half-formed, white-knuckled fist around his cast, and his breathing seems to be picking up a little speed on every exhale.

Jesus.

"The dressing on his back needs to be changed every other day," the stranger addresses me as he reaches for a brown bottle on the table, and Sherlock's gaze flickers up to his face just for a second, frowning in obvious confusion.

I swallow a strange mixture of blood tinged saliva and the insistent urge to scream, and make my way deeper into the apartment. I recognize my destination only when the back of my thighs hit one padded arm of a chair – my old chair – and I lower myself onto the armrest in a nauseating daze I haven't experienced since—

No. Not going there.

"So does this one," the man proceeds to pour some clear liquid onto a cotton swab, oblivious, as if the tension in the room couldn't be cut with a knife. Sherlock hisses when the swab touches his skin, and I watch as the familiar sneer washes away his perplexity over the words, as if it never existed in the first place. "His right forearm can probably forego the dressing next time, but the hand already got infected once so I wouldn't risk that just yet."

Sherlock seems to be unable to tear his gaze away from the happenings around his shoulder, but he starts leaning away from the doctor ever so slightly as he speaks.

"John is not here to replace you as my doctor."

His voice is deep, deeper than I remembered, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on not throwing up on the worn rug because I _know_ the words are meant to be delivered with an air of detachment, but while there is no resentment hollowing his baritone, there is something raw and open in there, like a bleeding wound, one that makes Sherlock sound like he swallowed gravel. He sounds… wrong.

I manage to peel my eyes open after a deep breath, and almost wince at the sight of Sherlock trying to subtly put as much distance between himself and the medic as he can without being called out on it.

A second later I find myself on my feet without making the conscious decision to stand, ready to offer to take over treating whatever wounds Sherlock has left to be treated, because surely I can do better than scaring him all the way to the other end of the sofa, or reducing his breathing pattern into those shallow little bursts that sound almost painful and—

A white piece of plaster is pressed onto the skin above Sherlock's shoulder, and the blond man starts to gather his supplies from the coffee table before I can start translating my thoughts into spoken words.

"Yes, he is," he says simply, decisively, and looks me in the eye as he fires off instructions at the speed of light. "Keep an eye out for the pneumonia. He doesn't need medication anymore, but you know how easily that tends to come back," he smiles at me, and I feel like there's a joke in there, built on our shared profession perhaps, but my attempt at copying his expression is half-hearted at best. "He is due for an X-ray in about two months, as I'm sure Mycroft will tell you. There is antibiotic ointment in the bathroom, and there should be some bandages left too, but I trust you have everything to redress his wounds, right?"

I nod quickly but the doctor doesn't acknowledge my response in his apparent haste to leave the flat – something I can't entirely fault him for – and the next moment the door is clicking shut behind his back and all there is left is the stale air and silence and my desperate attempt at looking casual in the midst of unopened boxes and Sherlock.

Clean-cut, unmistakable, flesh and bone Sherlock.

His trademark curls are gone. The bird's nest that used to make him look deceptively young has been replaced with a shorter, close cropped cut barely a fingerbreadth in length, with a distinct lack of styling that gives the impression his hair is just growing back after being shaved off completely. His forehead is too high for this hairstyle to be anything but unflattering on him, and yet…

And yet.

It's easy to tell his face must have been a mess, not too long ago. Split lip, bruised cheeks, a black— no, two black eyes, all faded and nearly healed over, but still visible enough to tell me just how bad it was. The scratch marks on his scalp look quite fresh, above his left ear, but Sherlock turns his head when he notices me noticing them, and I squish my reflexive protest before it could leave my mouth. So what if the marks are just the right angle to possibly be self-inflicted? It hardly matters how he acquired them.

Sherlock clears his throat, makes a valiant effort at straightening his crisp white shirt, but the top three buttons remain undone. Uncharacteristic: he used to unbutton only two. His collarbone is almost offensively defined, but that will be due to the remarkable amount of weight he appears to have lost since his—

Yeah.

"You haven't unpacked," I offer with what I hope comes across as a measure of indifference, but there's no hiding from Sherlock's stare – he must see the way I keep brushing my palms against my jeans to rid them of sweat.

My thumb catches on a ripple over the left thigh, which gives way to a ridiculous sense of embarrassment over my rumpled appearance. Sherlock's black suit pants of course are ironed and impeccable, and I find myself wondering if he dressed up for the blond man. He never used to change from pajamas unless he was leaving the flat, and I have it on good authority he is not allowed to do that alone yet.

Mary was right, I should have shaved.

"I wasn't sure if I would stay."

His reply makes my eyes snap back to his, and it's all I can do to stave off the panic attack my body insist on having all of a sudden. Stay where, exactly? In the flat? In the building? London? The bloody _country_? I have to sit back down.

And what does he mean he _wasn't_ sure? Is he sure now?

"Did you really accept Mycroft's offer?"

I take a deep breath and hold it for four seconds, like Ella taught, exhale on five, six, seven, eight; hold, ten, eleven, twelve. Inhale on one, two, three, four…

"Wasn't much of an offer, really. 'S not like he threatened to throw money at me."

My heart lurches when I manage to open my eyes again, because the emotions flickering over Sherlock's face are too fast to follow and not at all veiled, not like they are supposed to be. The surprise is the easiest to discern, but there is something else too – concern, perhaps? Yes. It's the same expression Greg and Mary get when my breathing gets funny, or overly controlled.

"And yet you're here."

Sherlock sounds hopeful, more so than I ever heard him before, and it hurts and angers me at the same time because this is wrong, _we are_ wrong, and this is nothing like how our first face to face conversation should go after eighteen months.

"I'm here because you need a doctor," I force out as my defenses fight to rise again, not wanting to give him the idea this is anything more than a temporary arrangement built on a misplaced feeling of obligation on my part. This is not about reconciliation; I didn't come here to fall back on how we used to be, and God, please, _please_ make Sherlock realize that before he orders me to make tea and I end up sitting across from him in my old chair, ordering takeout and listening to stories about the places he visited since his—

"And as you might have noticed, I have one," he responds with a huff, frustration at having to state the obvious palpable in his voice.

Well, I guess my thoughts must have shown quite clearly on my face because Sherlock is crossing his arms over his chest defensively, the movement made awkward due to his cast, but his eyes haven't lost a bit from their wideness which kind of ruins the petulant look he is going for.

I resist the urge to snort at his words. He has a doctor now, doesn't he? I guess we're not mentioning how said doctor just pushed him into a – for a lack of a better term – contained panic attack, or how Sherlock diffused it quietly, alone and with obviously practiced ease. Alright then.

"And now you have a new one," I say while doing my best to stare him down, but I'm painfully aware what my eyes must be communicating to someone with his abilities at deduction. _'Please don't make me say I have no idea why I'm here. Just this once.'_

I am so certain he is going to latch onto the reason behind my presence that I find myself gaping when Sherlock's expression crumbles, morphs into a disturbingly unfamiliar picture of relief, and the corners of his mouth lift into a smile so soft and radiant it steals the air from my lungs for a second.

"Okay," he breathes, but he must notice my incredulity because the next moment he clears his throat and steals his features into something closer to what I learnt to associate with him. "That's… good." He rests his arms on his knees and relaxes back into the cushions, but somehow he still fails to capture the aloofness that used to come to him so effortlessly.

There is silence after that, not the comfortable kind, and I dig my fingers into the armrest between my thighs to keep them from twitching. Sherlock notices the movement – of course he does – his eyes finally leaving mine, and I'm not sure I like that but breathing just got a lot less complicated so I don't complain. His head tilts in a way that is usually followed by a rapid stream of deductions and people getting offended left and right, and yet what comes out of his mouth next is too short to fit that pattern.

"You're not using your cane," he says almost to himself, and I look at the offending item resting against the chair, within easy reach.

"Yes I do," my protest is immediate and might hold a bit more anger than strictly necessary, but anger is familiar and better than anything I experienced since entering 221B, so I hold onto it with an iron grip because really, who is Sherlock of all people to suggest that I keep carrying that godawful, rotten thing around without having a good enough reason, a genuine _necessity_ to do so? Who is he to talk – he, who hasn't even _seen_ me in a year and a half – like he knows more about my body than I do, like the pain in my leg is insignificant, negligible, just a figment of my imagination? Who is he to—

Except I haven't used the cane when I run up the stair, wrapped up in a world of righteous indignation, have I? No. I don't think I did. In fact, I'm pretty sure the cane hasn't touched the floor of the apartment until I placed it next to my leg, into its current position.

I feel laughter bubbling up in my chest when I realize my left hand is as steady as it ever was before Afghanistan, but my somewhat crazed amusement is seated too deep to break to the surface.

Oh God, Sherlock.

He wants to disagree with me, I can see it: he wants to tell me I'm wrong, that I didn't _use_ my cane as much as I dragged it along without any real purpose, and I find myself anticipating his words, the return of the challenge he seems to have replaced with _I'm sorry_ -s and _Alright_ -s and a disturbing amount of pliancy that feels so out of place in Sherlock bloody Holmes it makes my stomach turn. I _want_ him to disagree, to fight for his truth, but his frown turns conflicted – he's reluctant, and the quite 'okay' he breathes after some hesitation feels like defeat.

"Stop doing that."

The words slip out without my permission, but I can't find the strength to regret them.

"Doing what?" comes his reply without missing a beat, and he seems so genuinely confused I feel like hitting something. Or someone. Maybe Sherlock, even.

"Stop this… walking on glass thing. It's—" I pause to heave a frustrated sigh. "It's unnerving."

Sherlock looks bewildered for all of two seconds before those green eyes widen again, and I can read the reply on his face before it has a chance to be uttered.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't you— _no_ , Sherlock! Stop!"

Suddenly I'm on my feet and all but run towards the kitchen, but the lack of microscopes, petri dishes or normal kitchenware there pushes my body through another terror-born surge of adrenaline, and I opt for pacing the length of the living room instead, hands tangling in hair I haven't brushed properly in days.

"Stop apologizing. Stop being polite, stop acting like I need to be… _sheltered_ from your personality!" _Stop sounding so broken every time you speak._ "I'm here as your doctor, nothing more! I'm not going to leave if you offend me – I'm going to leave when you're _better_. Those are the terms."

I stop pacing and attempt to take a calming breath, perfectly aware of the hole Sherlock's stare must be digging into my back. He doesn't say anything though, and for a few long minutes there's only the sound of my ragged breathing filling the silence.

"Are those terms… amendable?"

My knee-jerk reaction is to say no, to deny him the possibility of negotiation, because I know he doesn't want me to leave once he's healthy again but I'm not sure I can give him that. Yet, the resignation in his tone cuts at something inside me, deep and wide, and the wound bleeds faster as he sighs like he already knows the answer to his question but can't help asking nonetheless.

For a moment I'm not sure how I should respond because Sherlock is clearly not alright: words like torture and shellshock are drifting around my mind every time I look at him, and he needs a friend, a real friend to help him through whatever this is, but I'm not sure if I can be what he needs me to be right now – not after he left me grieving my best friend for more than a year. I know why he did it, I know he jumped to save my life, and that feels like something I shouldn't be allowed to hate him for, but…

"Not for now."

I don't need to turn around to know he's smiling, one of his rare, sincere smiles, and it's quite the effort not to glance back.

"I need to go," I say as I make my way over to the door, reaching for the handle more by memory than by actual sight. "I'll come around on, uh… Tuesday?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's voice is steady but holds no trace of a smile, and I wonder if that was only wishful thinking on my part. I hope it wasn't.

I open the door but my steps falter, and I hate myself for what I'm about to do but I can't, I _can't_ go without turning back just once more, without making sure he's there and real and breathing, without making sure he's not going to disappear the moment I take a step outside. There go all those promises to myself about keeping things levelheaded and rational. Laughable, that's what I am.

"You're going to be here."

The sentence comes out a tad shaky but is still more of a command than a request, and for once I can't help but be grateful for Sherlock's newfound accommodative tendencies.

"Yes."

His eyes are cold but determined, his tone firm enough to be believable. He looks almost like the Sherlock I lost on the pavement in front of Barth, and I suspect the sting in my eyes is as much from grief as it is from relief.

"Good," I avert his gaze and step through the door before he has a chance to respond, not caring if I move with the urgency of a prisoner about to escape. "Bye, Sherlock."

I'm halfway down the stairs when I'm hit by the strong sense of something _missing_ , and my anger reignites when I realize I left something in the flat.

I tear the door to 221B open with zeal I haven't felt in _years_ , which only serves to fuel my rage as I stomp across the room, grab my cane from where it's perched by the chair and march back to the hallway, all the while making a point of not looking at Sherlock still sitting on the sofa.

"Not a word, Sherlock!" I shout when I sense he is about to speak up, and don't start regretting it until my phone chimes when I'm two streets away and still carrying the damned thing only for decoration.

Received at 20:27  
 _Told you. -SH_

I stop to laugh for a good five minutes, leaning on a wall and brushing away the tears streaming down my face, resolutely ignoring the berth people seem to be giving me.

My limp doesn't come back until I'm six blocks over.

 **Day 35**

Received at 9:30  
 _I don't know what you've said or done to him, but thank You.  
M. Holmes _

Sent at 9:52  
 _I didn't really say or do anything, Mycroft._

Received at 10:59  
 _I see. In that case, thank You for that.  
M. Holmes_


	4. Chapter 4

**Day 36**

The burns on the right side of his neck and his forearm are healing nicely. Not even the few spots that must have been blisters are likely to scar. The back of his hand is another matter – a thin layer of skin graft covers part of it just below the pinkie and ring fingers, and it's easy to recognize the signs of a recent infection. This will take a few more weeks to heal completely, and it's not going to heal well.

' _One is third degree. Breadth and location both negligible.'_

His torso is an array of colors, purples mixed with greens and yellows, all deep bruising at different stages of healing. The right shoulder has got the worst of it – it's a blackened mess from all angles, decorated with two tiny puncture marks at the collarbone and a thin line that used to be held together by five staples. Surgery incision.

There are mostly horizontal lines crisscrossing along his spine, some already scarring, a few still in the process of absorbing stiches. Knife cuts. Lash marks? A cigarette burn. Two. Not counting. That one looks like an old gunshot wound.

'… _some cuts and bruises and a concussion._ _'_

I need to pay Mycroft a visit.

I don't have much to clean besides the hand, so I give the remaining sutures on his back a cursory wipe and start on drawing him a bath. Waist height, not too warm.

Then I spend the next ten minutes dry heaving over the kitchen sink while I wait for him to get into the tub.

He places a hand towel over his lap, which is a better idea at preserving the tiny shred of modesty I remember him having than the bubble bath I forget to suggest. Better that way – his skin doesn't need the extra chemicals.

A green bottle with a handwritten label serves as the shampoo, but it appears to be more aloe than soap so it doesn't lather well, and I rinse it out of his hair with a plastic cup I don't remember procuring. I'm already standing in the living room, preparing the gauze when I realize he might need help washing his back and shoulders as well, but he comes out dressed in pressed trousers and a dressing gown before I could offer any more assistance.

He kept his right leg slightly bent in the bathtub. Not sure if it was an attempt to hide the reddened skin over his shin, or one to keep it out of the water, but in either case it didn't work very well.

My hands seem to find the places where antibiotic ointment should be applied without conscious though, which is good because the rest of my thoughts are busy picturing him huddled up in a corner, knees drawn up to his chest, shielding his head with his arm from the flames.

"John?"

No direct contact with fire, which is almost worse because the exposure to the heat must have lasted long enough to burn away the dermis. One minute? Three? _Five_? How long does it take for smoke inhalation to—

"John? Are you alright?"

There is a wary look on Sherlock's face, one that he has been wearing for the better part of the last hour, I think. I can't recall how well he handled being touched just now, but I hope it was better than how he did with the blond doctor. He never flinched away, that at least I am sure of.

"Yeah," I force a smile that may be more for my own sake than Sherlock's, and head for the door with my bag and cane safely tucked under my arm. "Yeah I'm fine, see you on Friday."

"Thursday."

"Right, yes. Thursday then."

I have every intention to go to Mycroft (wherever he may be) as I step out into the street, only if to update him on the proper definition of _some cuts and bruises_ , but I don't get any further than the Gents' at the corner pub next to the tube station. Around the second hour the sounds of retching alarms the other patrons enough to notify the owner, who none too gently asks me whether he should call an ambulance or the police to get me out of there.

Would I still have a voice, I'd laugh.

 **Day 37**

Received at 11:32  
 _It looks worse than it actually is._ _-SH_

Received at 20:48  
 _John?_ _-SH_

 __ _ **Day 38**_

Two of the boxes are unpacked, but I can't tell whether that happened before or after the last time I was here.

Twenty or so books fill exactly one of the eight shelves that used to be dedicated to them alone: Industrial Chemistry, Mathematical Physics, a few volumes of Wild Flowers As They Grow. The smaller box must have held the display cases of preserved moths and butterflies, shadow boxes with poisonous flowers, a few paintings and the occasional antique map that are now stacked neatly in the corner of the desk, presenting an almost surreal scene compared to the clatter they used to create.

Two boxes that held nothing of true importance to their owner, and this knowledge doesn't make breathing any easier as I make my way to the kitchen that is still void of any sign of a tenant.

"Sherlock?"

There is no answer, just like there was none when I knocked a minute ago, but I hear a muffled voice coming from the bedroom. The door opens before I could decide how to proceed, and Sherlock walks into the kitchen with a phone by his ear, held there only by the very tips of his fingers around the black cast.

"No, what I'm saying is that he's not—" he cuts of abruptly when he notices me, eyes going wide for a second before he steal his expression into something more unreadable. "Never mind," is all the explanation the person at the other end of the line gets, and the call is cut off without as much as a goodbye.

"John. Hello."

A quick glance at the clock on the wall makes me realize I'm about an hour late, and that Sherlock was probably calling Mycroft to ask for his previous doctor back, because ' _No, what I'm saying is that he's not_ _ **coming**_ _'_. Fuck.

I start to form my thoughts into an explanation I can actually voice, because being _this_ late was not my intention, it's just that "I'm sorry, I was at work and there—"

"It's fine, John."

And that's that. No incessant questioning, no demands, not even a polite request to let him know next time if I can't make it on time. I don't have much of a chance to be discomfited by the very un-Sherlockian behavior though, because he quickly compensates by marching into the sitting room, stepping over the coffee table and flopping down onto the sofa. He's barefoot, which should look at least a little bit silly with the charcoal grey suit he's wearing, but the familiarity of those motions hits me hard enough that I feel no urge to crack a smile.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?"

His muscles are tense as I peel the gauze away from his back, but his breathing stays calm and even throughout the whole hour I spend at 221B.

 **Day 39**

Sent at 08:02  
 _I want his medical records._

Received at 09:30  
 _I will have my assistant drop them off in the evening.  
M. Holmes_

Sent at 19:40  
 _god mycroft! you should have told me these things earlier!_

Received at 19:43  
 _Are you sure you want to start that particular argument?  
M. Holmes_

Sent at 21:05  
 _No._

 _ **Day 40**_

Three more boxes have been unpacked. Manila envelopes, printed medical journals, more books. Not enough to fill up the remaining shelves, or cover the desk even.

The lowest stiches on his back dip into the water every time he leans back so I can rinse his hair, but I don't mention how he shouldn't be taking baths so often. Showers would be more of a hassle with his hands, and given the still pristine state of the flat, cleanliness is probably not something he would be willing to part with for now.

He never mentions the way I stop using my cane the moment I step into 221B, so who am I to suggest sponge baths anyway.

 **Day 41**

Mary takes notice within the first two minutes of entering my flat. Of course she does.

"What happened to your bedside lamp?"

"Knocked it off when I was reaching for the alarm in the morning."

"Uh huh. And what about that suspiciously lamp-shaped dip in the opposite wall?"

"…Coincidence?"

Mary laughs, I smile, and we leave it at that.

 **Day 42**

Two more boxes. Still nothing of substance.

 **Day 43**

Received at 15:09  
 _Happy Birthday, John. -SH_

Sent at 15:11  
 _Thank you._

 **Day 44**

"How are things going, John?"

Someone tried to burn Sherlock alive.

"Good. Things are good."

Ella doesn't wait for me to elaborate beyond giving a short pause – she knows very well that I'm not above wasting a full session on sitting in silence unless she prompts me to talk.

"What about Sherlock? Is he feeling any better?"

He can't lift his right hand above eye level.

"He… yeah. Yeah, he's healing up quite nicely."

Physio might restore eighty percent of his shoulder's range of movement , given a few months.

"How much longer is he going to need your help for?"

It might restore only fifty.

"Well… his cast is coming off in about… less than two weeks, so… not much longer."

I might have to keep his violin for good.

"And how do you feel about that?"

Bloody terrified.

"Um."

We don't get any further with the topic before I leave for Baker Street.

 **Day 45**

"You didn't come to the florist," is the first sentence I hear upon entering Mary's flat, and the rush of adrenaline is instant when I recognize the potential magnitude of the error I just made.

"That was today? Oh god, I… Mary, I'm _so_ sorry, I should have set a reminder, I should have—"

"Whoah there, slown down tiger, I'm not divorcing you before we're even married."

I hear the smile in her voice and my breathing slows down a bit at that. I hang up my coat and join her in the kitchen, inhaling the smell of lasagna penetrating air. She thinks Italian is my favorite – the result of a misunderstanding I'm reluctant to correct, especially since her ravioli is to die for.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Hmm, yes you will. But as a more immediate retaliation," she glances back at me over her shoulder, smirk softening the mock harshness of her words, "we are having pink peonies at the top table."

I grimace obligingly like I give a toss about the flowers or their color, and deliver the expected playact over dinner in which I try to futilely talk her into red roses or something that is apparently considered equally ludicrous for a wedding.

Our wedding. In five months. With blush pink peonies, whatever on earth those may be.

 **Day 46**

"Sherlock, you should eat something before John gets here, you skipped lunch and— John! Oh dear, how good to see you! Here, have some biscuits, it's not like Sherlock is going to eat them all, you know how finicky he is about these things. How are you John? I haven't seen you in… gosh, months now isn't it? Oh how time flies! How is Mary doing? Is her neck still giving her trouble?"

All of a sudden it's extremely hard to imagine how I managed to avoid running into Mrs. Hudson during my previous visits, but hindsight is refusing to tell me whether that was a conscious effort on my part or completely accidental.

Sherlock gives the tiniest pause in unbuttoning his crisp white shirt (it's always white these days) somewhere at the end of Mrs. Hudson's rant, and I realize he might not even be familiar with Mary's name.

Mrs. Hudson makes up for all the lost opportunities to chat with me within a few minutes, asking about the clinic and Mary and supplying me with the latest updates about Mrs. Turner's knee surgery and gossip about her beloved tenants and their rumored plans of adopting a child. Sherlock is careful to keep his eyes on his phone until she leaves, but the tension in his muscles as I start on his back reminds me of our first encounter with the blond medic, and that makes me feel like we entered a minefield for more reasons than one. I clear my throat to catch his attention, but he doesn't tear his gaze away from the small screen.

"Mary is—"

"Your fiancé. Yes, I heard. Congratulations."

The words are entirely devoid of inflection, so I take them for what they are and resume peeling the gauze away with a somewhat muffled thank you.

If it's suddenly more uncomfortable to look anywhere near Sherlock when I have my fingers buried in his slowly re-growing locks and battling with shampoo that still refuses to produce enough lather, it's definitely not because of the oppressive silence gaining a different tang than before.

 **Day 48**

No newly opened boxes today.

 **Day 51**

"Have you thought about whether you want to keep in contact with Sherlock after next week?"

Ella asks the question as if she doesn't already know the answer. Everyone does. Even Mary knows it, for god's sake.

"Would be kind of pointless, actually, seeing how we don't even talk."

This earns me a raised eyebrow and a small pang of guilt, even though I haven't directly lied to her. She just assumed Sherlock and I engage in the occasional small talk, and I didn't see the point to correct her.

"You don't talk. At all?"

"Not besides the bare minimum. I tell him to move or turn when I'm changing his dressings, but that's about it."

"You seem quite angry about that."

"I'm not—"

I take a deep breath and count to ten because I just came _this_ close to shouting at my therapist, and even I can recognize that as a bit not good.

"I… guess. Yeah. I might be, a bit."

She makes a noncommittal sound and scratches something down at the stack of papers in her lap. I hate it when she does that.

"You said Sherlock was very careful not to push you into a meeting when he came back. Do you think—"

I cut her off with a small huff, because yeah, even a small child would be able to tell where this is going and I don't have the patience to wait until we get there.

"Yes, he _is_ waiting for me to… I don't know. To start… talking. It was me who made it clear I'm not there as a mate, but as a doctor. I'm not angry with him for that. I'm angry with him for a lot of reasons, but not because of the… silence."

"Why are you angry then, John?"

For a second I contemplate deflection, but I only have three more visits scheduled with Sherlock before his cast is gone, and then he will be able to change his own bandages on his right hand, and the dressing on his back is only there to prevent irritation now at most, and he will be able to use his stupid shampoo on his own and—

"We don't have anything to talk about."

Much to my surprise Ella doesn't press any further, despite it taking me a while to find my voice again.

"We don't… I don't really want to hear about what he did while he was… away. And I don't want to talk to him about what happened to me while he wasn't here."

"What happened to you while he was not here that you don't want to share with him?"

Mary.

"N-nothing specific, just… I just don't feel like we have any… common ground anymore. Nothing left to discuss."

And god, is that a terrible feeling.

Ella looks at me for a long minute, and I feel guiltily grateful for the sigh that means she is letting me off the hook.

"What did you two use to talk about before?"

Cases. Anderson. James Bond movies, medical procedures, books and the solar system. Thai food. Music.

"Alright, how about this. I want you to make a mental list of the things you used to have conversations about with Sherlock, and see if you can bring one of those topics up the next time you see him. Sounds alright?"

Yeah, because it won't be awkward to start talking about bees out of the blue after three weeks of total, near stifling silence.

"Yeah. Sounds alright."

I'm already in bed when the thought occurs to me that it wouldn't have been, two years ago. It wouldn't have been awkward at all.

 **Day 52**

I don't want to talk about bees. So I don't.

 **Day 53**

I know it's a dream, but there are people, people who are trying to rip Sherlock's arm clean off his body, so I scream because what else can I _do_ , and it's Mary's startled cry in turn that brings me back to reality.

"Jesus, John! What… are you alright?"

The bedside clock reads only three a.m., and it takes me almost an hour to convince Mary I'm fine and coax her back to sleep before I dare to reach for my phone on the nightstand. Careful not to jostle her I type out a quick message I can't help but hate myself for just a little, and I wonder if I will ever be able to stop doing that, even knowing he's not dead anymore.

Sent at 04:35  
 _sherlock?_

Received at 04:36  
 _John? -SH_

Sent at 04:40  
 _Never mind. Sorry if i woke you._

Received at 04:41  
 _You didn't. -SH_

 **Day 54**

Music is out of the question, of course.

 **Day 55**

"Shouldn't have the nausea passed by now? Is he still feeling dizzy?"

"Huh?" is my admittedly not too coherent reply as I look up from the process of repacking the medical bag with things Sherlock doesn't even need, but it's not going to be a previously undiagnosed allergy or a sudden spike of blood sugar level that sends him back to hospital. Not while I'm there.

Mary points at the half-empty bottle of Cyclizine on the bed, and I find myself completely unconcerned with the lie I'm about to deliver, having gained more than enough experience on how to sell it since Sherlock's return.

"He gets vertigo, sometimes. It's getting better."

Mary looks satisfied with the answer so I bag the bottle when she goes into the bathroom to prepare for bed, like the pills inside are really meant for Sherlock instead of me.

 **Day 56**

There is an electric guitar in my chair.

It's a light, cream colored thing with a white part under the strings, a black neck and black buttons I never quite learned what were used for. There is a speaker on the ground that looks big enough to drive the neighbors into instant insanity, something that resembles a pedal, and an amount of cables that seems way too excessive for connecting these three items alone.

"Well, that's new," I say by way of greeting, visibly startling Sherlock with my voice. He's taken to waiting for me on the couch, nose buried in his phone, barely sparing me a glance before starting on ridding himself of his shirt. Greetings are usually optional.

"Mycroft's idea," he mumbles, immediately focusing his attention back onto the brightly lit screen. "It's the closest it comes to imitating the violin without a bow… or the tedious need for lung capacity."

Well, that's… he doesn't sound nearly as upset about this as I expected him to be.

"Your chances of playing the violin in a few months are pretty good, you know."

I try to infuse an air of certainty into that sentence, even though we both know his chances of raising a bow again are rather… medium. Not bad, for sure, but it's still a gamble.

Sherlock's answer is accompanied with a shrug that doesn't include his right shoulder nowhere near as much as it should, but his words make something in me uncoil nonetheless. Something rather enormous, apparently, if my chest's freshly regained ability to expand to its full extent is anything to go by.

"Perhaps. In either case, this would be an acceptable alternative, I suppose."

Well. Okay then.

"Do you even play the guitar?" I try to hit a light tone as I set my bag down onto the coffee table, and I sense Sherlock's eyes return to me – wary of the novelty of small talk, but not protesting.

"As of last week, yes."

I snort as I unpack the precious little stuff I still need to tend to his wounds, hoping to hide the tremor in my left hand under a million layers of nonchalance.

"Right. I'm not buying that. Not with your cast," I point to the offending item for good measure, and I catch his gaze not quite by accident, assessing me, head tilting a bit like on those rare occasions he forgets people are watching him when he's deducing.

"It's…" he pauses, waiting for me to cut him off. I raise an eyebrow just enough so it couldn't be misinterpreted for a signal to stop, and it encourages him enough to go on, albeit not with too much conviction. "It's true I cannot play most chords with the proper finger placement at the moment, but the presence of the fretboard alone makes the basics not at all dissimilar to a violin. Sustaining notes is a bit more tricky, but…" another pause, to make sure I'm still listening. "But I should be able to play at _popular_ _music_ level after I lose the cast. Mendelssohn in a few weeks, after I figure out a way for proper adaptation."

"Hmm. Pop music is not a synonym to the end of the world, you know."

"Not a synonym to the end of _your_ world, perhaps."

I don't manage a full blown smile, but the corners of my lips twitch as I reach for his hand to untangle the dressing from amid his fingers.

"So… the fretboard is the long thing with the strings and the dots, right?"

"The thing with the… for heaven's sake, John."

During the next seventy minutes I learn that the white part of the guitar's body is called a pickguard, the speaker is an amplifier and not at all necessarily loud with the correct settings, and that the pedal is only one of the numerous available types Sherlock is planning to experiment with in order to get the most authentic violin sound out of the instrument. He tells me he also plans to learn a few guitar classics though, because it would be a shame to use an instrument only for imitating another and not for its original purpose, so I make a mental note to come up with a few suggestions later, seeing how utterly lost he is when I mention Metallica.

He stops speaking every few minutes while sitting in the tub, stealing a glance at my expression from the corner of his eye, but a small nod or a question is always enough to get him back into lecturer's mode, even if only for a short burst before the next minute gap.

Several hours later I have sex with Mary for the first time in almost two months, and manage to sleep through the night for the first time since one year, six months and twenty-four days.

Music is not so much out of the question, as it seems.


End file.
